Windows of thin Grey light
the hushed and holy time it takes
for day to waken from the dark.
Dawn should last,
at least, the time of tea,
to let the boiling kettle rise,
the water crash against the leaves,
the flush aroma on the nose,
the silent sips of cooling brew
when that last drought is drained
the light will be complete.
Day should unwind from night
as lovers untangle
from the mesh of sleep
a slow silent ease
not to rob the moment of its quiet
All these things I consider holy.
Prayer is not a breath
at angled wood
It is not a petition
It does not count on beads
rattling fear and praises.
It is the slow absorption of the day
the unity of elements
the acknowledgment of oneness,
that the skin is no boarder,
our hearts are free to wash
beyond the walls of self
into all the world.
Prayer is the diffusion of these peoples being
into that greater being
the thread and cadence of the world.
Such a mystic prayer
cannot be uttered in the whim of a moment.
It needs that slow cool quiet of Grey windows
and the grace of unwinding lovers
unraveling their joys.
The distant sound of nothing I understand
still brings me peace, calmness and a tone to start my day.